H. Adler - The Wall

If such a visit was unfruitful, then I was thought mean, yet worse was what I had to put up with from such figures from the past. Their thanks, which I gathered from every corner, rubbed me the wrong way, the long talks, the wearying reports, the questions from dull philistines, the forced counterquestions, the litany of spoken sorrow amid sighs of futility. In the chilly brightness of living rooms or the biting smoke of kitchens, I whittled away empty hours. The living rooms smelled of being cramped and sweet, and forced me to play the part of the guest by sipping fruity drinks, or fresh bread that trembled before the knife, a homemade recipe of crumbly rich cake. The plate wasn’t taken away, the cup was filled again to the brim, followed by the threadbare request for me to stay longer. There’s so much time. Already evening approached, thirst sparing me the sight. When I finally felt I’d almost gained release, chairs and tables got in the way, I couldn’t get past them or through them, the watch that I pulled out was berated as being unacceptably bad and had to quickly crawl back inside my pocket. Then I felt ill, my limbs shaking. Others noticed it and showered me with concern, pushing me toward the most comfortable chair, into which I had to sink myself and cower, just to recover a bit, already feeling better, right, as the schnapps glass twinkled, but stiff and clammy, biting my lower lip, my teeth clenched, my tongue almost bloody, me burning deep within the maw of a dark torrent.

Patient and lurking about, they stared at me expectantly. I should have said something to thank them for their help, yet my throat was constricted; I stuttered my embarrassment. Regret was swallowed inside an empty collar, my tongue clinging fast to the gums. I babbled through long breaths — the air, the good air! — and wanted to get out of my chair, to just run away quickly without suffocating. Yet no one understood what I wanted, but only tore open the window, the evening pressing in its chilly grime and slamming against my forehead. Something rumbled from down below, an immense noise rising up from the courtyards and hitting the walls of the room and dripping down them. I felt bad and had no strength, something speaking for me, standing there in hot and searing fragility, asking could I go, could I, only that would help, could I, if it was all right, could I, please, let me, fast, before it’s too late, don’t waste any time, already late, late, late, the watch, now please, no help, no, only open the door, hurry, gone. The door, room, door, kitchen, door, apartment, many doors, please, thank you, you’re welcome, thank you, please, the door shutting. As I fled down the stairwell, the murder of the past nearly buried me from all sides.

Then I couldn’t see anything, though I had finally slipped out. Weakly I stumbled away, the street sweepers’ stirred-up chaff stuck in my eyes, causing them to sting, nothing but black fire, choking voices blazing high, hurting my ears: “That belongs to you now!” Yet it didn’t belong to me, a brittle exploded nest from which everything near turned away, remains, even if they weren’t unspoiled, rubbish, the formless husks of original forms, yet nothing but husks, emptied out and blank in their naked transience and the hard, frozen past, which lasted and promised to last beyond any future. Thus the goods were allotted me and yet were never mine, thorns and splinters in my hands painful with wounds that had been commanded. From some neighborhoods I groaned with the weight, always like a thief who had been condemned to recognize the uselessness of all possessions and to carry his booty until the end of days, forced harshly to take in the scope of all the plundered homesteads for the museum and make sure that its owners never find it. I saw people in the street who hungered for possessions and eyed my load covetously. How happy I would have been to give the poor things my embarrassing goods: Please take them; I’m grateful that your sensibility aspires to wrongfully acquired goods. So take it away and enjoy your possessions. I, however, could not and retrieved the meager riches; they were entrusted to me, I being their guardian.

How uncomfortable it was to get them through the streets without harm! Sometimes I had the notion of inconspicuously abandoning a package in a corner or in a doorway. The museum didn’t need the treasure, and I could hope that someone would take mercy on the possessions left behind and would bless the unknown donator. But this unburdening was denied me. I couldn’t relinquish anything; that would have broken a trust with honorable guardians, whom I never could have faced again. Only once did I have the damnable courage to let a heavy bundle of pots, pans, cooking spoons, and sieves slip inconspicuously to the ground. Straight off I felt I’d succeeded, no one seeming to have noticed. I breathed a sigh and pushed on without a care. But, after only a few steps, a houselady called after me, upset, saying I should please pack up my stuff, otherwise there would be trouble. I didn’t want to stay there at all, but the voice called out much more sharply from behind me. I stopped, turned around with a slight bow, and played dumb: “There must be some mistake; they are not my things.” I’m sorry, the woman humbly said, while leaning on a broom, but if she wasn’t afraid of starting something, she would take the bundle to the office for lost property: “They’ll then just yell at me! Don’t fool with me. I saw it with my own eyes, how you let that lump of stuff fall, just like a criminal. If it doesn’t belong to you, then take it yourself to the office for lost property. It ain’t staying here, and now off with you!” I didn’t trust myself to run away, I was so weak; so I had to return and pick up the burden. When I bent down, the woman looked me in the eye suspiciously, threatening me with her broom, and shrilly showering me with words of anger and shame, as I miserably schlepped on.

Sometimes I relieved myself of my load in little bars, asking the barkeep behind the counter for a beer even when I wasn’t thirsty. I only wanted to see if he would notice me and fulfill my request. “Nice weather today!” I’d say in an attempt to relax. I awaited an answer and hardly got a glance in return. “What I have to carry is so heavy!” Nor did that work, either. Had I said nothing? But the barkeep brought me a full glass. I blew away the foam, tasted the beer, and thanked him for his interest. The man sucked his lips, indifferent and bored as he wiped the brass top of the bar; he didn’t understand at all what I wanted. When with both hands I shifted my goods, he slowly shook his head. Yet the barkeep looked at the money that I tossed to him and let it disappear straight off into the till. He spent no more time with me, nor did I enjoy the drink. Soon I placed the half-full glass on the platter that was spotted and wet, the barkeep still wiping down the bar, though to no end. My goodbye was left unanswered; a customer smiled and gave me a funny wave. I had to steal off through the forlorn labyrinthine streets.

Then I hoped to be attended to in little shops where the dealers and salesmen, when they weren’t too busy, would get lost in curious chatter. The worn-out bell willingly helped me enter without disturbance. A welcoming voice greeted me. I asked for shoelaces, buttons, pocket combs, picture postcards. The selection was narrow, the wares cranked out of factories without care, scrimpy and expensive. I rummaged slowly among the dusty inventory and praised the goods as if I were a shopkeeper. I kept roaming around, such that I was attended to as a customer, while my suitcase lay on the dirt-encrusted floorboards. Occasionally came a good word, I leaned forward, and since there followed a pointed joke, I could laugh. But then everything was over, all harmony quickly dissolving, and I had to pay at some expense. Quickly I was turned away, the rusty tin handle heavy in my hand — the load, the sore arm, it quivered painfully all the way to my shoulder.